


i'm sorry, the old simon can't come to the phone ('cause he's dead)

by zombiejuju



Series: Saphael Week [3]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Background Camille Belcourt/Simon Lewis, Background Clary Fray/Jace Wayland, Biting, Blow Jobs, Collars, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Leashes, Light BDSM, M/M, Master/Pet, One-Sided Clary Fray/Simon Lewis, Praise Kink, Saphael Week 2017, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 17:30:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12137538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombiejuju/pseuds/zombiejuju
Summary: “It’s not hard,” Simon admits, taking a sip of his own drink, blood droplets staining the corners of his mouth. He shrugs, “You stake a few to make an example out of ‘em, threaten the strong, make promises you can’t keep to the weak.”“This isn’t you, Si,” Clary tries. She flinches at his crass tone.“Maybe, just maybe,” Simon says, leaning forward and creeping toward the edge of his couch, “This is who I was all along.”





	i'm sorry, the old simon can't come to the phone ('cause he's dead)

**Author's Note:**

> If you don't know where the title came from, I'm not going to tell you because I don't want you to suffer the way I've been suffering for the last week. ~~It's from 'Look What You Made Me Do' by Taylor Swift.~~
> 
> Warnings: Death (and resurrection), some violence, some blood, some alcohol.
> 
> Prompted by: [Saphael Week Day 3](https://fyeahsaphael.tumblr.com/post/164294220131/hii-so-recently-there-has-been-a-lack-of-saphael) (Role Reversal).

Clary Fairchild has made many mistakes in her life but never one as big as bringing Simon Lewis back from the dead. Camille Belcourt assures her that Simon will be relatively the same as he had been when he was a mundane, just heightened. He’d be _more_ of himself.

Clary nods and digs Simon’s grave, eager to bring her best friend back despite the skeptical looks she’s getting from Jace. On her order, he lifts Simon’s corpse and lowers him carefully into the shallow grave. Later, when Simon’s arm springs from the loose and soft dirt, Clary wastes no time in reaching out to grab his hand. She grunts as he uses her lackluster strength to hoist himself out of his temporary tomb.

“Oh, Si, I’m so glad you’re back!” Clary says, pulling Simon into a hug. She frowns as the dirt covering him makes contact with the parts of her skin that are bare. He returns the hug, resting his head on her shoulder, slowly turning it until his mouth is pressed against her neck, pulse thumping between his lips, “Simon, what are you doing?”

Simon doesn’t respond, mouth too busy opening around her jugular, fangs piercing her flesh. Blood drips down her chest and across her shoulder. Simon does his best to lap it up and suck it into his mouth. She’s drugged, weak, unable to pull herself from Simon’s embrace. Her eyes roll into the back of her head and tears leak down her cheeks.

Jace charges at Simon, knocking him onto the cold cemetery ground. He hops up, brandishing his seraph blade, ready to strike it into Simon’s heart.

“No, wait, don’t kill him!” Clary exclaims, hand applying pressure to her wound. Simon flashes away.

“He’s not Simon anymore,” Jace says. He tears off a strip of his own shirt and ties it around Clary’s neck, just enough to get a handle on the bleeding before igniting her _iratze_ rune.

* * *

Less than a month later, Clary wishes she hadn’t brought Simon back. Or that she had let Jace kill him when it became clear that Simon wasn’t himself anymore. It comes to the attention of the Institute that the local New York clan has a new leader: a young guy, freshly turned. Clary, Jace, and Izzy are sent to interrogate him. Find out how he became the leader, make sure he’s going to obey the Accords, etc.

Clary isn’t even sure why she’s surprised to see Simon waiting for them in Hotel Dumort, reclining comfortably on a Victorian fainting couch cushioned by dusty red satin. He doesn’t move to sit at attention when they enter and he doesn’t say anything to them. Hell, he doesn’t even acknowledge their presence.

“Sit,” Camille says, stepping from the shadows. Her sudden entrance makes all three of the shadowhunters jump before they follow her command, sitting gingerly on an antique couch parallel to Simon’s.

Carrying a tray, Camille walks over to the table between the two couches. She places three goblets in front of the shadowhunters and one in front of Simon. From an ornate bottle, Camille pours wine into their glasses. She turns to Simon’s goblet, tears open a blood bag with her teeth, and pours the viscous maroon liquid into his cup.

“Drink,” Camille says as Simon swings his feet over the edge of the couch, gracefully sitting up and facing the shadowhunters. She sits on the floor by his feet.

“How did this happen?” Clary asks.

“Drink,” Camille says, “Rude. Ignoring our hospitality.”

“How did you become the leader?” Jace asks. He makes a show of taking a sip of the wine, and despite how bitter it might be, he trains his expression into one of neutrality.

“It’s not hard,” Simon admits, taking a sip of his own drink, blood droplets staining the corners of his mouth. He shrugs, “You stake a few to make an example out of ‘em, threaten the strong, make promises you can’t keep to the weak.”

“This isn’t you, Si,” Clary tries. She flinches at his crass tone.

“Maybe, just maybe,” Simon says, leaning forward and creeping toward the edge of his couch, “This is who I was all along.”

“That’s not true. I’ve know you my whole life,” Clary says. Simon responds with a cruel laugh.

“I don’t care about how or why or whatever else you do with your kind,” Jace says, “But you need to follow the Accords.”

“You don’t tell me what to do, shadowhunter,” Simon replies, leaning back and pursing his lips.

“Don’t push it,” Jace says, hand on the hilt of his sword, “I’m being nice here. I’m going to act like the incident at the cemetery never happened because you’re Clary’s friend and you were newly turned.”

“Don’t do me any favors,” Simon says with a tone of indifference, waving Jace off, “And we’re not friends Fray, not anymore.”

* * *

The next time Clary sees Simon, she’s at Pandemonium with Jace and Alec, looking into a blood smuggling ring. She stops dead in her tracks when she sees him. Simon’s sitting on red vinyl couches, surrounded by beautiful men and women in various states of undress. Some of them are fellow vampires, for sure, but Clary recognizes that some of them _must_ be mundanes by the way Simon is biting them and drawing blood from various places on their bodies.

He must sense her because his head darts up, blood splattering from the sudden motion. Simon passes the semi-conscious girl to one of his companions and uses a cloth napkin to wipe at the blood dangling from his lips. She stalks toward him, adrenaline pumping dangerous through her veins and blocking out everything that isn’t _him_.

“Are you responsible for the blood smuggling ring?” She asks, confidence overwhelming her fear.

“Blood smuggling is pedestrian,” Simon replies, “I have better things to do. More important things to do.”

“Like what, blood orgies and gorging yourself?” Jace asks as he comes up beside Clary. He grabs her elbow in an attempt to calm her.

“Do not talk to me, shadowhunter,” Simon says, eyes flicking toward Jace to glare sharply at him, “I don’t have anything to do with smugglers and I’m not going to tell you anything I _do_ know.”

“Si, please. Help us.”

“I’m bored now. Raphael, get them out of my sight,” Simon says. He turns his head to look expectantly at a tan man with dark eyes and dark, slicked back hair. The man, Raphael, steps forward, causing Clary and Jace to step back.

“Alright, okay, we get it. We don’t want any trouble,” Jace says. He grabs Clary’s hand and tugs her back toward the dancefloor.

* * *

Clary is put on ‘W.O.H.D.’ (Watch Over Hotel Dumort) duty because Alec figures she’s the one shadowhunter Simon won’t tear to pieces on sight. She wishes Simon was close to someone with a tougher stomach than her because she sees and hears things she’d rather not.

“Nothing in this life is free, fledgling,” Simon says. He’s towering over a naked, kneeling Raphael. In one hand, he has a chain leash which finds its way to a hoop on the black leather collar Raphael is wearing. The other is fisted in Raphael’s hair, scratching delicately at his scalp.

Raphael brings his hands up to Simon’s pants, undoing the button and pulling down his zipper. He grabs Simon’s pants and boxers by the waistband, bringing them down to just below his thighs. Simon sighs as his erection is freed, carding a hand through Raphael’s wet locks. He gives the hair a tug, pulling Raphael closer to his groin.

“Be a good boy and suck,” Simon commands.

Raphael eagerly complies, mouthing along the side of Simon’s shaft from base to tip. Once he’s reached the head, he takes it into his mouth and sucks around it enthusiastically before sliding his mouth all the way down to the bottom, deepthroating Simon. Simon groans, digging his fingernails into Raphael’s scalp. He’s not sure which one of them is more ecstatic about the fact that Raphael doesn’t need to breathe.

“Look at me,” Simon demands.

Raphael’s gaze locks with his immediately. He thrusts himself down Raphael’s throat. Raphael’s eyes flutter shut and he moans around Simon’s shaft. Simon starts fucking himself down Raphael’s throat, abusing his jaw with the force of it.

It doesn’t take long for him to come, body going taut. He drops the leash, metal clashing and reverberating along the walls. His fists both tangle in Raphael’s hair as he spills down Raphael’s throat, eyes squeezing shut and body stilling for a few moments.

“Good boy,” Simon says, letting go of Raphael’s hair, “Time for your treat.”

Raphael stands up and turns his back to Simon. Simon leans against Raphael’s back, wrapping one arm around his middle to hold him steady while his other hand strokes Raphael’s erection tight and fast, twisting just a little bit on the upstroke. He’s whispering praises in Raphael’s ear, murmurs that Clary can’t hear from where she watches in the hallway.

Moments later, Simon bites down on Raphael’s shoulder hard enough to draw blood. Raphael slumps backwards onto Simon’s solid form, pelvis angled forward, come spurting on Simon’s hand.

“Why am I so invested in you?” Simon asks. He kisses at the lovebite he left on Raphael’s shoulder.

* * *

“Are you proud of yourself?” Clary asks Simon the moment he steps out of his bedroom. Her face is a pathetic mixture of rage and disgust, “Keeping a pet vampire?”

“He’s perfectly content with his situation,” Simon replies, brushing past her, “What are you doing in my hotel anyway? Why are you spying on me?”

“Certainly not to watch you act out an Anne Rice novel,” Clary says. She crosses her arms over her chest.

“Then don’t watch,” Simon says, “Go back to your Institute and stay out of my business.”

* * *

“He hasn’t broken any of the Accords,” Clary says. She shifts her from foot to foot.

“But he’s doing something that’s bothering you,” Alec says, looking up from the report he’s writing.

“Well...he’s just, not who he was. That’s all.”

“You saw something troubling?”

“Yeah. Just the way he treats Camille and Raphael. Especially Raphael. Like they’re his...pets.”

“Vampires are odd creatures. They’re made up of exaggerated emotions,” Alec says. He returns his attention to his report, pen moving fast over the document, “He’s more than likely just showing them love.”

“By having both of them sit at his feet and do favors for him?”

“It’s not something you have to worry about,” Alec assures.

* * *

“If you’re going to be around all the time, I’d rather you didn’t lurk,” Simon says during dinner, gesturing toward an empty seat at the dining table. Clary creeps into the room and sits across from Camille.

“Si,” Clary starts, watching as Simon pours a dirty red tea into three cups. Clary sniffs, the smell of death permeating through the air. Her nose wrinkles in disgust, watching as the red liquid--blood, she’s sure of it--fills the teacups. 

“Don’t bother. Whatever it is, don’t bother,” Simon says. He passes cups to Camille and Raphael. His gaze drifts back and forth between them as they take their first sips. His questions them wordlessly. Camille and Raphael answer with a single nod before continuing to sip their tea.

“Did you...did you just wait for them to drink first?” Clary asks, surprised.

“I told you they’re content with their situation,” Simon says. He stares into his teacup, “Happily spoiled, even.”

“Simon, are we gonna be okay?”

“Let the old me go and we will be.”

Clary nods, “Okay, Simon.”

“Camille, order a pepperoni pizza for Clary,” Simon says, “And don’t kill the delivery boy this time.”

* * *

“I’d like to stop reporting on Simon,” Clary says one day, shortly after she had dinner with his clan.

“Granted,” Alec replies without looking up from his paperwork, “Looking in to his clan is a waste of our time and resources.”

Clary smiles for the first in months, free of her old life. Ready to move on as a shadowhunter and maybe, just maybe, learn to be friends with the new Simon.


End file.
